by Celia Aaron
Chapter Five
I hefted my pack onto my back and slammed my trunk closed. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath my boots as I studied the small slope to my left. I’d parked on an old logging road to the west of Blackwood near the site I’d described to the sheriff. Instead of heading south toward the clearing, I consulted my map and walked into the woods toward the northeast.
I’d studied aerials and satellite data from the area and marked sites of interest—sites where I might find some trace of my father. I would hike to the Choctaw field after I checked the first spot, an area where something glinted from beneath the trees on the aerials. If I was lucky, I might find something of interest concerning my father or my dig along the way.
The wind had died down, but the chill air remained. I started off through the pine woods, the ground sloping gently. The eastern edge of the Delta wasn’t as marshy as the lands closer to the Mississippi River, though wet patches and streams were frequent. The terrain remained almost flat, only rolling slightly, as alluvial soils fanned across the gentle slope down to the river. Preparing for the terrain and the weather was half the battle. I wore layers, jeans, waterproof boots, and carried another coat in my pack.
The day had dawned bright and cloudless, and the sun helped me pick my way through the thickets and brambles. I snapped twigs and crunched pine cones as I trekked through the taciturn landscape. An hour of tramping later and I came to a wide stream, its surface placid in areas and gurgling over rock in others. I walked farther north, looking for an easy spot to cross.
Cypress trees loomed overhead, their feathery branches leaning down to the water’s surface as the ground became boggier, my boots sinking with every step. I leaned against a twisting cypress root and grabbed my canteen. The woods remained silent around me, no summertime cicadas singing in the trees and the sun too high for the frogs to serenade me.
After downing a few pulls of water, I stowed my canteen and stared down the path of the stream, looking for the easiest way across. A small outcrop about twenty feet ahead seemed like my best bet. I’d have to step through the stream to reach a dirt bank on the other side, but the water was shallower and clearer there.
A twig snapped nearby. I whirled and peered through the trees, searching for movement. After staring for a solid thirty seconds, I relaxed against the cypress, the gray moss hanging from the low limbs forming a curtain around me. Whatever animal was out there likely caught my scent and fled.
The stream crossing went smoothly, my boots keeping my feet warm and dry despite the frigid water swirling around them. Once I gained the opposite bank, I continued my trudge, checking my compass every so often to make sure I was still on track to find the spot of interest. Every so often, I thought I heard some sounds in the woods, more twigs cracking or the crunch of dead leaves. Whenever I stopped, the only sound was my breathing and the quiet gurgle of the nearby waterways.
After another hour of hopping smaller streams and picking my way through the undergrowth, my stomach began to grumble.
A clearing opened ahead of me, the brown grass absorbing the sun’s rays and storing them up for the green of spring. I recognized it from my satellite map. The shine in the woods wouldn’t be much farther ahead.
I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead where a fine sheen of sweat had grown during the journey. I’d spent hours on the treadmill getting ready for the arduous task of surveying the properties, but the actual hike—pack included—was proving more demanding than I’d thought.
The sun hit my face with full force, warming my cold cheeks as I stepped into the small clearing, about fifty yards wide. Some of the grass was matted down, a sleeping area for deer or some other animals. I walked about twenty feet away and settled in a spot where the ground was dry and solid.
My lunch consisted of a simple turkey sandwich and some chips. But food always tasted better when your senses were full of the palate-cleansing outdoors. Something about the clear air, or perhaps the cold and lonesome woods, made everything so much sweeter.
I finished my food and stowed my trash in my bag. Before leaving the clearing, I unhooked my small spade from my pack and walked a few paces away, my eyes trained on the ground. When I found a slightly mounded section of ground at the edge of the plot, I dug down, turning a few shovelfuls of dark dirt onto the dormant grass.
The smell of rich earth permeated the air, and I remembered why I loved archaeology—finding things, learning about the past, and trying to preserve whatever fleeting lessons the ghosts could teach us. I dug a layer deeper and found some particularly juicy earthworms, then changed position around the mound. I sank my spade deep, then hammered it further with my boot. Something hard clicked against the spade’s tip. Likely a rock, but maybe something else.
I pulled the spade out, moved it back a few inches, then plunged it in again and pushed on the handle, leveraging the dirt up and over. Pottery pieces crumbled on top of the pile. My body buzzed with the thrill of discovery as I zeroed in on the find.
Kneeling down, I picked up the biggest shard. Only a few inches across, it was a medium brown with scored lines across it in a repeating pattern—likely etched solely for decoration. I carefully turned it over and studied the inside. Made of clay and crushed ceramic, the piece was at least two-hundred years old. Yes.
I returned to my pack and pulled out my map. With a charcoal pencil, I marked the spot for future exploration, but frowned when I remembered that I was still inside the bounds of Blackwood property. Did I have permission for future exploration, or even current exploration? No. But I decided to let future Elise worry about that tiny snag.
After carefully stowing the artifact, I got to my feet and continued my trek. Renewed energy flowed through my limbs from my lunch and the pottery find. The trees thinned a bit as I crossed a boggy area and then climbed a small hill.
I was getting close and kept scanning the trees for any sign of something other than vegetation. Cresting the rise, I pulled out my binoculars and studied everything I could see as I spun in a circle. I stopped when an odd break in the trees caught my eye. That was it, the anomaly on the satellite image.
My breath grew short as I hurried toward the spot. My heart constricted, and I was drawn to the odd patch of woods like a hunting dog toward its quarry. Somehow, I just knew it would give a clue to my father’s disappearance.
“I wouldn’t go that way if’n I was you.”
I spun and froze. A man approached from about twenty feet behind me, his feet quiet on the pine needles as he chose his steps with care. He was tall with bushy eyebrows, an overgrown beard, and a smile that revealed crooked, yellow teeth.
“Who are you?” I reached into my pocket, palming my knife.
He spat out a stream of dark liquid and grinned, a lump in his cheek next to his gum.
“Are you following me?” Fear slid down my spine like a runnel of ice water.
“Yep.” He kept walking toward me, and I felt the urge to back away. Instead, I flicked my knife open, the blade locking into place with a quiet click inside my pocket.
“Why?”
He stopped a few feet away and looked at me with curiosity. His beard was matted, the hair reminiscent of steel wool. “You shouldn’t be out here, punkin.” He let his gaze slide down my body, then back to my eyes. “Not safe out here for a girly like you. No telling what kinda madman might take a shine to you and carry you off.”
“Is that a threat?” I held my knife with a death grip.
“Just a fact.” He spat again, the stream tangling in his beard and dripping down to his tatty t-shirt.
“I’ll be sure to be careful.”
“You do that, punkin.” He grinned again and walked past me.
I turned as he went, keeping him in front of me. “Who are you?”
“Nobody important. Nope, not important. I’ll tell you something, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I would turn around if I was you, punkin.” He disappeared behind
a tree, reappeared on the other side, and continued along as if he knew exactly where he was headed. “Go back. Go back to whatever town you come from. Don’t come here ever again.”
“You can’t scare me away.” I tipped my chin up, trying to speak the lie with conviction. “I have permission from Mr. Blackwood to be on this property.”
He cackled but didn’t look back. “Mr. Blackwood, is it? He’s the one you should be afraid of the most.”
“Why?”
Another cackle, which faded as he wandered farther away. “I warned you, punkin. Don’t never say I didn’t warn you.”
I stared after him for a long while until he was completely lost from view. His cryptic warnings only strengthened my resolve to keep digging. Whatever secrets these woods held wouldn’t stay secret for long.
Keeping one eye on the direction he’d gone, I moved slowly toward my goal. There was nothing particularly different about the trees themselves, but something rested at the base of one of them just ahead. As I approached, I realized whatever it was had been covered in branches. Even so, the afternoon sun glinted off metal.
My heart sped up as I took the final steps toward the biggest clue yet. There, under the canopy of trees and covered with rotten limbs sat my father’s green El Camino.
Chapter Six
Blood pounded in my ears as I ripped the barren limbs from the car. I yanked and pulled, not caring that the jagged pieces of wood stabbed through my gloves and scratched my hands.
When I finally pulled the last branch away, I stood back and took in deep gulps of air. The El Camino was the same mottled green—more Bondo than metal in some places—that I remembered from my childhood. Patches of rust had sprouted along the hood, and the tires had long since deflated. The car hunkered down like a corpse, all momentum lost.
The windows were dirty, and I could only make out the dimmest outlines of seats inside. With shaking hands, I gripped the driver’s side door and pulled. A harsh creak cut through the air, and the angry joint gave way. I bent over and scanned the interior as a musty smell overwhelmed my senses. Beneath the decay, I recognized the familiar whiff of vinyl.
The purple rabbit’s foot still hung from the rearview mirror despite dark brown stains on the beige vinyl telling me my dad’s luck had long since run out. I stepped back and took a breath. Even though I knew he was gone, seeing the evidence of it still hit me like a punch in the gut.
I leaned my head back and stared up through the skeletal branches, past the spotty moss, and into the blue above. “Dad.” Tears I thought I was done shedding burned in my eyes. “What happened to you?”
The empty air didn’t answer. It maintained its silence as I tried to piece together the few facts I’d learned about his disappearance. He’d spent his last moments on earth at Blackwood, but why, and who killed him? Taking a deep breath, I turned my gaze earthward. Someone had obviously gone to a good deal of trouble to cover up the car. Only time revealed its location, the branches withering until a glint of glass shone out to a satellite high overhead. Whoever drove or pulled his car into these woods probably felt safe, maybe had even forgotten about their dark deed. I’d find them, and when I did, I would see justice done.
The first person on my list was the stranger in the woods. I filed him away and continued searching the car.
Pulling out my flashlight, I scoured the interior of the car. Empty cigarette packs and some matchbooks littered the passenger floorboard. Memories of my father talking with a cigarette hanging from his lips, the ash precariously long, threatened to overwhelm me. I pushed the thoughts away and kept looking. The glove compartment had been cleaned out. I pulled the passenger seat forward and shone my flashlight along the floor. Something under the driver’s seat caught my eye. Was that hair? I leaned in and ran my hand along the floor and snagged a few strands. The thing came free with a pull.
A sob shook me when I recognized one of my favorite pony dolls. I remembered looking for it for days when I was nine years old. My mom gave up the first day, convinced I’d somehow accidentally thrown it away. I’d continued the search, even calling Dad to ask if he’d seen it.
“No, darlin’. But they say if you love something and you let it go, it’ll come back to you.”
I’d hung the phone up in frustration and eventually called off the search, opting for a different pony altogether. I smoothed the plastic hair out of the purple mare’s eyes. It was an artifact of sorts, a small piece of history from the life I’d had so long ago. After tucking it into my pack, I did another sweep of the car. The rest of the cab was empty, no spare keys or papers hiding in the visors.
I dug through the mass of leaves and pine cones in the bed, but found nothing of interest. When I was finished, I closed the doors, the squeaky thuds giving a finality that I felt in my bones. My father was dead. But the car gave no explanation as to who killed him or why.
Backing away, I searched the ground nearby, looking for any hint of a grave. I walked in concentric circles, tramping through the leaves and undergrowth as I moved farther and farther from the car. Nothing caught my eye, no obvious disturbances or tell-tale depressed ground. He wasn’t here, but I knew he couldn’t be far. I’d have to keep digging, just like I’d always done.
The trek to my car was an even slower slog, old grief weighing me down. Memories of my parents flitted through my mind like a movie reel, each image growing darker until finally eaten away by time and distance. My parents were shadows, both of them gone, yet still haunting me. My father with questions, my mother with warnings. I’d never known which one to listen to when they were alive, much less now.
I arrived at the same stream I’d crossed earlier and knelt down while peeling the gloves off my stinging hands. My palms were scratched and gouged. I leaned over, submerging them in the clear, cold water until the sting was replaced with a comfortable numbness. Once cleaned, I pulled them out, shook them off, and stuffed them in my warm pockets. I had bandaging materials in my pack, but my hands weren’t bad enough for me to stop and doctor them.
Once feeling returned to my fingers, I pulled my canteen from my pack and fished out a granola bar. As the sun melted into the horizon, the frogs started their lulling songs, all of the notes mixing to form a homogenous hum.
Since I was losing the light, I decided to wait and investigate the field near the river the next day. After gathering my strength for the push, I took off. I made it across the stream and through the boggy ground without too much trouble, then approached the logging road from the north. Coming out of the woods at twilight, I hit the road with solid, if tired, steps.
I trudged steadily south, expecting to spot my car around each curve of the road. I walked a quarter of a mile as the sun set and the forest filled with fireflies. Stopping, I pulled out my map and compass. I didn’t mark the spot where I parked, but I knew I should have seen it by now. Something was wrong. My car was gone.
Who would have taken my car? The image of the creeper from the woods walked through my mind, his filthy spit staining the ground. Foreboding darkened my thoughts, and I suddenly felt exposed out on the road. I hurried into the trees, though they didn’t offer much cover. I fished my cell from my pocket. No bars. The closest cell tower was too far on the outskirts of Browerton.
“Fuck!” I rubbed my forehead with two fingers and clenched my eyes shut. I was seven miles from the main highway, in the middle of the woods, and the temperature was quickly dropping.
Shining my flashlight onto my map, I searched in vain for a closer homestead, a forest ranger station, even a hunting shack. Nothing. The closest spot of civilization was the home at Blackwood, only two miles away through mostly flat terrain.
I could either set up camp with what I had in my pack or try for the house. Getting inside was already on my list of priorities, though Garrett Blackwood had been less than welcoming when I’d met him. Did I really meet him? I still wasn’t sure. Those eyes from the window may have been the same hue as the ones from the university phot
o I saw, but the resemblance ended there. Whereas the man in the photo smiled, giving off the effervescence of youth, the man in the window looked nothing short of haunted.
The decision came down to roughing it in the woods or risking it with the man in the house. A bitter wind kicked up in the darkness, and the promise of a long, cold night ahead made the decision for me. I turned toward the southeast and set out. Only ten minutes or so had passed when I heard a bloodcurdling scream tear through the trees.
Chapter Seven
Stumbling across a set of tangled roots, I pressed my palm against the closest tree trunk to steady myself. The scream had sounded once more after the first peal, only to be silenced halfway through, as if a hand had clapped over the woman’s mouth.
The moon rose high and bright, shining its crescent light down through the trees and glinting off the small creeks and streams I crossed. Each step took me closer to the house and the screams that had chilled my blood. I reached into my pocket, my knife comforting against my palm.
I kept walking, determined to rescue whomever needed saving. Jumping a small stream, I heard a huff, like a hard exhale, ahead of me. The hackles on the back of my neck rose as my heart kicked into high gear. I froze and searched the darkness.
Far in the distance, a light burned through the trees. The house. It had to be. Salvation or damnation. Either way, I was focused on getting there.
I took another step, and the sharp exhale sounded again. I pulled my knife from my pocket and held it out in front of me. Dead leaves crunched ahead and to the right. The noise grew closer as I held my ground. My knife hand started to shake as twigs snapped.
A shadow darted through the trees, small and scampering. Then another headed right for me. I crouched, bending my knees and getting ready to spring forward with my blade. The shadow moved quickly, and I held my breath as it approached.
